


Blood (I Fear My Time Is Short, There Are Armies Moving Close)

by luninosity



Series: The Epic Universe of Porn, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Trauma, and Love [12]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Abduction, Eventually Happy Endings I Promise, Hurt!James, Hurt/Comfort, James Being Brave, M/M, Panicked!Michael, Past Abuse, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rescue, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-16
Updated: 2012-11-16
Packaged: 2017-11-18 19:56:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/564687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That Person from James’s past isn’t happy that James and Michael are getting married. And it’s at least an hour before anyone even realizes that James is missing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood (I Fear My Time Is Short, There Are Armies Moving Close)

**Author's Note:**

> The beginning of the next story arc following all the Things With Porn. This first one starts almost immediately after the events in "Touch"--later that same night, in fact--so if you haven’t read at least that one, please do—this will make much more sense! I promise happy endings eventually. Lots of healing.
> 
> Sorry about the cliffhanger in this bit! Will post the next one momentarily.
> 
> Title courtesy of Toad The Wet Sprocket’s “Pray Your Gods”: _pray your gods who ask you for your blood/ for they are strong and angry jealous ones_

(ground zero)

An hour. It’d taken him an hour, to realize that James was missing. That the world had fallen apart.

Michael stared at his mobile phone. It remained horrifically silent, now.

Ian put a hand on his shoulder, trying to offer support, maybe, or just letting Michael know he was there; Michael appreciated the gesture, but the touch couldn’t penetrate the numbness.

He kept watching the phone, and hated himself for not having known.

Earlier, the night had been going so well. Had been so obliviously happy, not seeing the catastrophe around the corner. No one had imagined anything might be wrong.

They’d wandered out of the storage room, smiling at each other and holding hands because they could, because they were both _there_ , flushed with elation and afterglow. They’d decided to make the announcement at the party—everyone else was there too, after all, and James never had been good at keeping secrets. Anyone looking at his face would know exactly how happy he was, at that moment.

Michael adored that openness, of course. Always had.

They’d had to run up to their room and change first, because neither of their suits was fit for public appearances at this point—an outcome which he couldn’t regret in the least—and of course when they’d made it back downstairs Chris and Tom had looked them up and down and grinned, knowingly. Michael hadn’t bothered to blush. Had just said, “James, did you want to tell them?” and James had.

Michael’d felt a little bit bad for stealing all the ensuing attention, since technically it was still Marvel’s party, but not that bad. He got to marry James. He wanted to tell the entire _world_.

Besides, one of the studio executives had wandered by, murmured, “Nice publicity stunt,” and handed them a hundred-dollar bottle of champagne. So relations seemed amicable on that front, at least.

After a while, James had excused himself from all the laughing crowds of well-wishers, everyone in the universe wanting to buy them drinks and shake their hands, pointing out that he needed to call his family: “If my grandmother has to find out about this from _Entertainment Tonight_ , she’s going to kill me. Or you. Or both of us, and then we won’t get to have a wedding at all—”

“Hang on,” Michael’d said, “I can come with you, I—” but then Kevin Bacon had turned up and started hugging him, and when he’d managed to disentangle himself, James had vanished behind the sea of exuberant faces.

He’d thought that James had just gone off to make the phone call.

He’d been so cruelly wrong.

 

James had, actually, made the phone call—not too long a call, but it’d taken a few minutes, between the background noise, the international connection, and the misplaced hearing aids on the other end, to get her to understand what he was saying. Once he’d explained, she’d thought about it for a minute—James had held his breath; he knew his grandparents liked Michael, everyone did, but there was still a difference between knowing that the boy they’d raised had grown up sometimes wanting to date men, and that he was about to marry one—and then said, cheerfully, “It’s about time, I was thinking I’d have to come over there and knock some sense into that boy, he took long enough about it, now how do I get grandbabies out of you two?” And they’d both started laughing, over the phone.

Grandbabies, he’d thought, amused, hanging up and starting to wander back towards the party. Technically they’d be great-grandbabies, he supposed, but none of them thought about it like that; James had been their son, for all intents and purposes, for years.

Maybe he and Michael could adopt. Maybe they could have sons. Or a little girl, with Michael’s faded Irish accent, and blue eyes.

Distractedly wondering whether Michael would enjoy the mental picture he was forming, of babies in those muscular arms, James walked around the wrong corner, realized he’d managed to get himself lost, and sighed. Backtracked. Found himself in a completely deserted hallway.

“When did I turn left?” he said, out loud, and then turned around, and ran into another person. Who smiled at him.

James knew that smile. He’d never expected, or wanted, to see it again. He still had nightmares, very rarely, about that smile.

“About two minutes ago,” said that too-recognizable voice, “when you were on the phone and not paying attention to where you were going. Which made it far too easy to follow you, honestly.”

James tried to back up. Tried to run. But there was a wall behind him, and suddenly there was a hand on his arm, and another hand against his hip, and a sharp pain, even through the layers of his suit.

He gasped. Looked down. The needle slipped away, taking a tiny drop of blood with it. “What—”

“Oh, come on, you didn’t seriously think I was going to let you leave me? I didn’t mind you trying out other people—I always thought you’d end up bored and come back—but getting married, James, that’s just hurtful. And you aren’t allowed to hurt me. That’s the other way around.”

The hallway revolved, lazily, around him; he stumbled, collided with the wall, clung to it for support. His legs weren’t working, even though he was shouting at them to move. “Please—”

“Oh, definitely.” That smile again; it was the only thing he could see. “You don’t have to ask; I am going to take you home. Right now.”

Through the dizziness, the world was a blur; he didn’t remember being taken outside, or pushed into the car, though he lay there feeling the leather of the seat beneath him, cold from the night air. Tangible. Solid. Not a dream, despite the hallucinogenic swirling of his vision. Too real.

Footsteps; a blanket landed on top of him. James tried to look, but couldn’t open his eyes.

“If you’re wondering, it’s just because it might look suspicious, you passed out in my backseat and all. Can’t have anyone thinking you’ve left with me.” A pause; a familiar hand touched his face, pinching, inspecting. “You know, I think maybe that was a bit too much. I had to guess. You’ve put on weight, since the last time we saw each other.” The hand slapped his cheek, enough to sting, vaguely, through the fog. James kept himself from reacting; maybe, if he could pretend to be unconscious, he’d be left alone. It wasn’t that much of a pretense, anyway.

“All right. You wait here for me; we’ll be home soon.” The hand, the presence, tugged the blanket up over his head and went away; after a few seconds, the engine started, rumbling through the night like a predatory creature, angry and out of control.

James lay very still. Tried to breathe. Tried to think, through the haze of grey clouds that had invaded his mind. Michael. Michael would be terrified. How long had it been? Would anyone have noticed his absence, yet?

Michael, he thought again, and moved his left hand, very slowly, partly because he couldn’t make his muscles obey any faster and partly because he had to keep the motion unnoticeable. Slid fingers into his pocket. Found his mobile phone.

He couldn’t make a call; that would be too obvious. Text, he thought, desperately. He had to remember how to type. He couldn’t focus on the letters; they spun and danced like birds in flight, when he attempted to read them. And his fingers felt too clumsy, ancient eroded blocks of stone, and blocks of stone that didn’t even belong to him, not anymore.

But he had to try. He had to get out of this, had to do something. For Michael. He found keys, under the blanket, by touch, and hoped they were close enough to the right ones.

 

Michael’d been talking, cheerfully, to Patrick Stewart, who was grinning so widely that Michael felt a little challenged in the toothiness department, and promising him that, yes, of course he and Ian could have front-row seats for the wedding, and no, they did not need to bring their own decorating staff, when his phone buzzed, in his pocket.

“Hang on,” he’d said, and fished it out, assuming it was James, and getting ready to be annoyed, because he hadn’t seen James in what felt like ages, and this was supposed to be their big announcement, the two of them together, after all.

Maybe James’s grandparents hadn’t approved, though. He’d thought they’d liked him, the few times they’d all met. James’s grandmother had looked at him as if sizing him up, the first time, and then had watched him all through dinner, silently, every time he’d looked in her grandson’s direction or put a hand on James’s arm.

Later, after James had gone off to make coffee, she’d leaned over, and muttered, all begrudging Scottish conviction, “Never seen him smile like that at anyone else, so I guess you’ll do,” and James had walked back in and said “Sorry, I meant to ask, did any of you want decaf, because I need the caffeine, wait, why are you all looking at my face?” and they’d both, simultaneously, started laughing.

He’d thought everything would be fine. But maybe he’d been wrong.

He did look at the screen, then. And he had been wrong. But not in the way he’d been imagining. So much worse.

_Help_ , said the phone, silently. And then a name, one he didn’t recognize. And then, as if James had only belatedly realized that Michael wouldn’t know what that meant, one more word: _HIM_.

“Oh, god,” he whispered, soundlessly. The phone almost slipped out of his numb fingers, when he tried to type back. _Where are you? What happened?_

A pause. Then, _car_ , and Michael felt the ground lurch beneath his feet. Patrick leaned over to look at him. “Are you quite all right?”

“No…”

Another two words popped up. The first one was terribly misspelled; after a second Michael figured out that James had tried to type _drugged me_ , and this time he did need to sit down, because he thought he might be going to faint. No air left, in his lungs, in the middle of the crowded room. No ability to breathe.

Why was everyone still so happy, around them? How could the party still be going on, the music still playing, when James was scared and in danger? Why hadn’t the world stopped turning, yet?

“What’s going on?” Ian had come back; he reached over and took the phone out of Michael’s frozen hand, read the screen, looked up. “Michael?”

He swallowed. Attempted to remember how to make words. Then tried to explain, and watched Patrick’s and Ian’s expressions freeze into shocked silence.

“We’re calling the police. Right now.”

Michael nodded. Or thought he did; he still felt as if his lungs were slowly being crushed in a giant vise. “Should I—”

“No. He’s talking to you; ask him where he is. Or if he can tell us anything else.”

“And tell him it’s going to be all right.” That was Patrick; Ian paused to give him a smile, for that, and then kept dialing, on his own mobile. “Hello, I need to report an abduction…”

An abduction. Christ. It was. James had been taken. And not randomly. The _HIM_ shouted up at them from the screen, accusingly. That person. The person neither of them had ever wanted James to see again.

_You’ll be fine_ , Michael typed. _We’re coming to get you. Just hold on. I love you_.

 

The phone lit up, beneath the smothering weight of the blanket; James tried, one more time, to get the letters to make sense, but the blackness was creeping in around the edges of his vision, and he couldn’t think anymore.

The car growled. Idled, at a red light, or a stop sign. How much time did he have? How far away were they?

Michael had asked where he was, he thought. He tried to answer.

 

“What does that mean?”

“If he’s been drugged, he probably isn’t very coherent…”

“That’s not even a word…”

 

_?_ said the phone. James wanted to cry. He couldn’t. No control. The car turned a corner. Slowed. He heard, dimly, the scrape of a garage door.

No time, not now. Just one last thing he needed to say.

 

_Love y—_ said Michael’s phone. That was all. One word. One letter of that second word. As if James hadn’t had time to finish, before hitting send.

“No. _No_. James, please…”

Nothing else. Nothing more.

“Come on.” Ian put a hand on his elbow, pulled him through the crowd. “I gave them the name that James gave us, and James’s cell number, in case they can still track it, but they want to talk to you. Whatever you know.”

Michael let himself be escorted out the door, and put into the car, and driven away. Like James had been, except not at all like James had been, because James hadn’t had a choice. Hadn’t been able to escape. Had been _hurt_.

He kept watching the phone, in case it offered something, anything, else. It remained dark, and fragile, in his hands.

 

James recognized the house. Not all the furnishings—obviously there’d been some redecorating; of course, it’d been years, he thought dimly, and then couldn’t figure out why his brain was dwelling on stupid little details like the lurid new painting on the wall—but the house itself knew him. Welcomed him back, in an atmosphere of sick satisfaction. Or maybe that was just the drugs, and his own imagination.

“I know you remember where our little playroom is. Can you walk? If not, I can carry you.”

He tried. His skin crawled, at the thought of being carried, being touched. But his legs refused to work, and he fell.

“Ah, adorable as always. Asking for me to help you.”

No. Never.

Downstairs. He felt himself being dropped on the bed; felt hands pulling off his jacket, his tie, his shirt, leaving bare skin exposed to the cold. He kept his eyes shut, and stayed as limp as he could, not letting any of it be easy.

The hands shifted to his pants. Paused. Dipped into his pocket, and discovered his mobile. “You turned it off, for the evening? How considerate of you.”

And James let himself breathe again. He hadn’t been sure, in those last nightmare seconds, that he’d managed to hit the right buttons, to hide his actions, in time. But he had.

“Well, you won’t be needing it anymore, of course.” The phone went sailing across the room, casually; hit a wall, with a crunch, and fell to the floor. But that didn’t matter. Not now. Michael would find him. He believed that. Clung to the conviction, even as the hands made efficient work of his pants, and everything else.

“He lets you wear underwear? So permissive. You know you won’t need those from now on, either. No clothing, unless I say so.”

No clothing now, either. The remains of his suit lay scattered around the bed, fallen in their attempts at defense. Not their fault. They’d tried.

“You know, I was going to wait, to do this properly. But you’re so lovely, when you’re afraid. I can see you wanting to tremble, you know. And it has been a very long time.”

Sounds. The rustle of clothing. Hot weight, on top of him. He tried not to realize it. Tried not to be aware of anything at all.

“Don’t pass out, now. I want you awake for this. I know you’ve missed me. I want you here. Don’t disappoint me, James.” The hand cracked across his face again. This time the impact felt a little further away.

He found a small whimper, though. If he didn’t, it would only get worse.

“Good,” said that voice, approvingly, and then the weight atop him shifted, his legs being pulled apart, and then there was the pain, again, except more of it, this time, everywhere, inescapable, burning even through the blessed fog.

Something tore. Broke. Flesh giving way, shredded; he couldn’t blame his body for giving up, when he wanted to, as well.

No. No giving up. Not yet. He’d survived this once before; he could do it again. He could hold on until Michael found him.

Of course that wasn’t true, though. This was different. He’d never had to survive _this_.

And Michael would find him, he knew that. But some very deep-down part of him, the voice that’d never quite believed how lucky he’d been, always waiting for Michael to look up and laugh and say _you thought I meant all those things I’ve said, don’t be stupid, what makes you think you deserve to be loved…_ that voice spoke up again, now, very clear and horrible in the shroud of the fog, and it said, very calmly, _as if he’s going to find you soon enough; you believe he’ll try, but how hard will he try, really? You think he’ll still want you, after this?_

He didn’t have a good answer for that question. He wanted to. He wanted to be certain. But he didn’t have many certainties left, in the floating grey blurry world.

The pain was a certainty, though. It sliced through the numbness like a comet. Deadly.

He could hold on, he thought again. Maybe Michael would find him soon, and maybe not, but he had to try, just in case. If he had no choices left about anything else, he could choose to believe that, at least.

After a few minutes, the battering thrusts seemed to get easier. More slick. Wetness, against his thighs. He didn’t let himself think about what that meant.

He couldn’t tell when things were over; just extra heat, throbbing and screaming inside him. He might be crying; his face felt damp, but he couldn’t move, or open his eyes.

“I did miss you. Did you miss me? Tell me, James. Look at me when you do.”

He whimpered again. Loathed himself for obeying.

“I knew you did. Such a little slut, for me. Knowing you deserve this. Wanting it.”

He shook his head, involuntarily, at that. No. Not anymore. The movement was a bad idea, of course.

“Are you fucking disagreeing with me, James?” The blow, this time, snapped his head to the side. “Seems I need to remind you of your manners. My replacement—sorry, dear, your fiancé—can’t have been very good at keeping you in your place.”

Michael, James thought, and pictured grey-blue-green eyes, lighting up like the first early thaw of rivers in spring. That smile, so broad and unrestrained and ready to let the world know how happy he was, every day. Michael’s hands on him, long-fingered and strong and always careful, even in those moments, even when spanking him, or holding him down, not to hurt him. Michael saying, clearly and passionately, _I love you, always, I’d do anything for you, I’ll rescue you forever if you need me to…_

Michael _would_ come for him. He knew that. He held onto the memory of those words, those eyes, like the definition of hope.

“I think you might need something else. Let me see…”

A short pause; then, ominously, “Ah. You do remember the night you ran away from me. I had no idea you’d be so timid, you know. I would’ve tied you up, if I’d known you disliked knives.”

Oh god no. He did try to scream, then. The sound that came out was barely audible.

“You don’t get to object, here. And I don’t want to listen to you pretending you can.” He felt his mouth opened. A gag. Not just a gag; he knew this one. The blunt phallic shape of it pushed all the way back into his throat, bruisingly painful; he choked, struggled to find air, around the intrusion. The world was swimming, dizzily, or maybe failing to swim, and drowning.

“Comfortable? You used to enjoy having your mouth full. I distinctly recall that. Try to talk, again. Go on.”

He couldn’t. Could hardly breathe. Couldn’t keep his eyes open, with all the tears, escaping uncontrollably again.

“I was giving you an order. Try to say something. Amuse me, James. You’re not being nearly fun enough. You _are_ disappointing me. And you don’t want that.”

He knew his voice wouldn’t work, but he made the attempt, anyway. If he could try, if he could at least show that he’d meant to obey, maybe the result wouldn’t be as painful. Sometimes it’d worked that way. Sometimes.

The faint sound he’d managed earned a laugh. “So you do still want to listen to me. Better. But…I don’t think I want you to talk. I think it’s more fun when you know you can’t do what I’m asking, don’t you? I enjoy seeing you try to please me anyway, when we both know you’ll fail.”

Fingers, on his throat; they tightened. Squeezed, relentless weight inside and out, and he felt something give way, crushed. He thought, very dimly, that he might not ever be able to talk again; that thought ought to matter, ought to frighten him, but the ability to care, to think, to feel, had wandered very far away.

“I think you should get to know my knives, this time. But just in case…” Handcuffs, hard and unyielding. Cuffs around his ankles, too. As if he could’ve moved.

A pause, a silk-steel whisper of metal, and a line of fire traced its way along his chest. Down to his stomach. Skin splitting open, not deep, he thought, but enough to bleed. He could feel the sticky heat, scorching through all the cold.

The knife came back up. Rested at his wounded throat. “This is what you were afraid of, isn’t it? Knowing that your life could be so completely in my hands? Were you afraid to trust me, with this? That’s insulting, James. Honestly.”

Not just afraid. Terrified. He’d waited until they’d been close enough together, pretending to be still lost in that deeply submissive space, and then kicked out, hard, connecting exactly where he’d meant to, and fled, in the aftermath. And had never looked back.

“The French used to have a term for orgasm, you know. La petite morte. The little death. We could find out how death feels, you and I.” The blade bit into his throat. He could sense the trickle of blood, slowly welling up in its wake.

“First, though…I think you two need to become more intimately acquainted.” The knife lifted away; James couldn’t let himself be relieved by that fact.

And he’d been right not to be. Abruptly, the pain, lower down, between his legs, came back. Worse, this time. A blunt instrument, too hard to be flesh. Metal. It twisted. Slid inside him. Pressed, viciously, into that spot, the spot that should’ve meant pleasure, but the pain was too great.

And then it was gone; he felt his head jerked up. “I want you to look. Eyes open.”

He had to fight with himself; his eyelids were weighted down with what felt like heaps of sand, scratching and pulling him into darkness. But it _would_ hurt worse if he didn’t listen. He remembered that.

There was blood, on the hilt of the knife. Someone’s blood. Not important. Very far away. Almost pretty, red against silvery steel. Shiny. Festive.

“I thought you’d appreciate that. Do you want it back inside you? Of course you do; you love being fucked. I remember that, too, you know. The way you sound, when you’re begging to be allowed to come. The way your tears taste, when you cry, when you’re pleading with me for release.”

The metal slid back inside him, too easily. Funny, he thought. It was hurting much less, now. Actually, everything seemed to be hurting a lot less. And at some point he’d shut his eyes again. Unless he hadn’t, and the world had just gone all black and fuzzy of its own accord. Stupid unreliable world.

A hand landed on his cock. Squeezed. Hard. “Not even interested? What did your handsome fiancé do to you, that you can’t respond, even to me? You used to. I suppose I’ll have to try harder. You can thank me later.”

Fingernails sank into sensitive flesh. The pain exploded again. With it, the world went away.

James had time for one last thought— _Michael, I’m so sorry, I know you’re coming but I can’t, I can’t, I love you, I wish I could have seen you on our wedding day_ —and then he went away, too.

 

The police knew the address. Apparently there’d been complaints registered before. Nothing serious. Noises. Disruptions in the night. Nothing ever worth prosecuting. They listened to Michael’s repeated statements—everything James had ever told him, what little James _had_ ever told him—and seemed to believe him, especially after scrutinizing the messages on his phone.

But they refused to let Michael, or Ian and Patrick, come along.

“Please,” Michael said, desperate, shaking. “He’s my—we’re—we’re getting married, and he—I know what he’s been through, with this—please, just let me, I can wait in the car—”

“Civilians,” the detective started to say, and then Ian wandered off, apparently aimlessly, and came back holding out his phone: “Would you like to talk to the governor? He and I are having lunch next week, you know. I’ve just been making plans with him,” and the man registered the threat in those normally mild eyes and gave up. “You all wait by the cars. And do exactly what we tell you. Got it?”

So now they were standing, out in the night, in the middle of an otherwise inoffensive street in a residential neighborhood, behind a colorless row of three police cars. And waiting.

Two of the officers had knocked; no answer’d been forthcoming, so they’d gone inside. Justifiable cause. Reasonable suspicion. Michael had forgotten how to breathe. He couldn’t remember having taken in air since that first worldshattering text message.

He must have _been_ breathing, of course. He was still here. But he suspected that that might stop, for good, if they hadn’t found James in time.

In time, he thought, as the seconds ticked by. Beside him, Ian and Patrick were holding hands, not speaking. In time could mean anything. Too many possibilities. It’d been over two hours, now. Almost three. In time might mean that James was still alive, at least. It had to be too much to hope for, that he wouldn’t be hurt. He just prayed that whatever had happened, the hurt wouldn’t be too terrible to, eventually, heal.

In the wake of that thought, the crack of a single gunshot shattered all the silence in the world.


End file.
